I grew up feeling disconnected from myself, and oftentimes from life itself. It’s not that I necessarily knew anything was wrong with me, or my family, it was just that I always had a sense that I was a bit a part from everything.

This feeling was my norm. It was a part of my everyday existence. A deep down sense that I was destined to live my life on the outside of life. At best, I was a hopeful observer of the people and things around me; always longing to fit in, but never able to find a way to get in.

I remember I use to look in the mirror sometimes and wonder who was staring back at me. I didn’t recognize myself. I didn’t know who I was, what I was, or who I was supposed to be. I would even spend long hours searching the internet late at night, never sure of what I was looking for, because I wasn’t sure what I was missing. In looking back, I suppose I was searching for some clue or insight about me; hoping to find some lost piece of myself out there.

It was during one of these late night searches that I came across a discussion thread about group therapy for childhood abuse survivors. At the time, I’m not sure why this particular topic stood out to me.  Most would agree that there was something definitely off in my childhood, but no one, not even me, had ever referred to it as abuse.

The most critical assessment of my upbringing was called dysfunctional, and even this was never said in front of my parents. It was only whispered, or sarcastically joked about, between my sisters and I. The unpleasant truths behind our upbringing was always downgraded and thrown away with dismissive comments like, “all families are dysfunctional.”

There was an abstract denial about our family legacy that we all followed. Everyone was complicit in keeping certain memories a secret, even myself. It was an unspoken family code of conduct. We all were committed to keeping the family image together, regardless of whether it was true or not.   

Separating my Narrative from the Family

My family always had a need to make the bad seem good, and the good seem better.It was as if our family narrative was only allowed to include the happy memories. The unpleasant aspects were either changed or completely omitted. Our story was we were a strong and successful family built on integrity. Even I believed this version for a time. I had gotten so good at pretending, that I didn’t even realize it wasn’t real.

The truth was, I knew my family’s story, but I didn’t know mine. I knew my family, but I didn’t know me. I wanted to talk more about our past, but that conversation always seemed strictly off limits. I think this was because some of my family thought I was looking to blame, but what I really wanted was to connect. I had a deep down longing for acceptance, and thought talking about some of our problems would help.

When I attended my first group therapy meeting for childhood abuse survivors, I wasn’t sure if I belonged. I had never been a part of any group other than my family, and had never talked about my family with anyone who wasn’t family. But as I sat listening to others share, I found traces of my own painful past within their stories. I too knew the sadness and disappointment they had experienced. It was within their stories, that for the first time in my life, I recognized myself. 

Most of the people who had shared their story had been ostracized, or openly ignored by their family. While some families had acknowledged the abuse, they refused to talk about it past the initial admission. By openly telling their story, some of them had lost everything. They had sacrificed so much to gain their own identity, and sense of self.

My Story

The first time I volunteered to share in group therapy, I had to write down what I wanted to say, because I get nervous when speaking in front of other people. This is a small piece of what I shared that day in group:

My mom treated me my whole life as if my thoughts, feeling, and even physical condition were invisible, or not important. I really believed that I never mattered. I always thought as a child that it was a mistake for me to be here, and that I was being treated so badly because I was a mistake.

I thought maybe I had done something wrong, and because God already knew how rotten of a child I was, and how bad of a person I would grow up to be, he was getting my punishment in early. And bringing in God into my early equation of worthless existence only further intensified my guilt and shame.

All I had ever heard about God, faith, and religion is that punishment equaled something bad for bad people, and good things were for good people; and if you’re currently experiencing a bad situation, just pray about it, and God will send you your provisions, (at least to the good he did). Oh how I prayed as a child, how I begged God to save me, to help me, to not allow my mom to treat us this way; and not just me, but my sisters and brother too.

 I was constantly cold as a child, because my mom would never turn the heat on for us in the winter. If I were to ask, she would make me feel guilty. She would tell me that she didn’t have the money to turn on the heat, and that I should be ashamed for asking. She would tell me that we would all be homeless and on the streets because of me; because I wanted the heat on, which cost money that we didn’t have. I felt guilty. I felt like I had single-handedly jeopardized my entire family-all my sisters and my brother, just by asking to turn the heat on. I truly felt that way.

When I would go to sleep, I would put on three pairs of paints (the third pair always being sweatpants), three shirts (an undershirt, a long-sleeved shirt, then a sweatshirt), three pairs of socks, and a hat. I would tie the hood of my sweatshirt around my head tight to keep the cold from seeping in. It never worked. I felt like I would freeze to death on some nights.

I feel like I never even had a chance to be upset about what I went through. Anytime I tried to bring it up to a friend or family member. I was promptly shut down, cut-off, and shamed for bringing up my own mother in a negative light.

I was guilted for having the audacity to think that the things I went through as a child were somehow even worth mentioning given all the children who grow up with no mothers; who are homeless, poor, raped, killed, hungry and starving to death. How could I even dare to think that what I went through bad when so many other people suffered so much more.

My mom told me I was a horrible child, that I was evil, and that I was sent from the devil to ruin her life. She told me she hated me, and I believed every word of it. I somehow internalized and made her words a part of my core. This must have been going on before I can remember, because I never remember feeling good about myself. I really believed her, and even if I didn’t want to, it was too late, she had ingrained a bad me inside of me.

I don’t hate my mom now. Maybe I did for a while. She took a lot from me. And it has nothing to do with money or clothes, she took me away from me. She took my childhood, she took my peace of mind, my emotions, everything that a person needs to live. I felt like I was going insane sometimes. I started to wish for death and even tried.

As I get older, I feel unsure of what to do with myself. My feeling and thoughts are all over the place, oftentimes, overdramatized, just like all my mother’s reactions. I didn’t deserve what she did to me, and I still suffer from it as an adult, and it makes me angry to think of this. But I don’t want to be angry. I want be whole. I want to feel happiness and joy at its core. I don’t want to be afraid of life. I don’t want to just be free, I want to feel free.

Although other members are not allowed to comment while one is sharing, the subtle nods of understanding throughout my story were encouragement enough. I felt as though they recognized me, and I recognized myself.Within my story, I could connect the tragedy of my past, with my day-to-day struggle for self-acceptance.

I shared a few more times in group, but ever since that first time, I never went back to the former narrative. For me, there was no going back.

Becoming an Individual

Becoming an individual for me has been a lonely process. I experienced something similar to some of the other members. When bringing up the past to certain family members I trusted, I was aggressively ignored, and treated even more as an outcast; but this time, I accepted it.  

It hurt, but somehow the road alone as an individual seemed more appealing than the road behind as a follower.

For the first time in my life, I had an understanding of myself and what had happened to me. I was willing to talk, but I was no longer willing to deny. Although I lost several meaningful relationships, I can’t help but feel a responsibility to myself, and a need to stand my ground. It’s not to make a point, it’s just that something changed in me when I began to speak openly about the trauma from my past. From then on, being who I use to be seemed silly, because it wasn’t me being me, it was me being them.

Nowadays, I consider what I want before making important decisions, and I’ve learned to shake off criticism to some degree. I have self-standards, and am beginning to recognize and understand the mechanisms behind some of my greatest characteristics, and most tragic personality flaws. I’ve gained a better perspective on my career choices, my relationship habits, why I fight the way I fight, why I bring up certain topics, and leave others out.

For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m finally getting to know myself; my likes, my dislikes, my interests, and my hobbies. I’ve discarded old habits, and have tried, and retried, old and new things alike. I’m discovering who I am, and I’m learning to experience and enjoy life through my senses in ways, that for many reasons, I couldn’t while growing up.

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Capturing my past was the first step in understanding and accepting myself. While I will always be a part of my family’s narrative and legacy, I am no longer defined or held back by it.I have a place and a voice, and even if at times I don’t know where or what that is, I allow myself the space to figure it out. It was through sharing my story, and my truth, as it happened to me, that I found the very thing I had been searching for all along…myself.